Memories
by Gillian Leigh
Summary: A tribute to all of those who died on 911. The tragedy hits the Scully family hard. Please R&R.


Title: Memories

Author: Gillian Leigh

Summary: In honor of the two year anniversary, (has it really been two years?) of the September 11th tragedies, I wrote this fic. For me, it's therapy, and it's a good excuse to cry when I really need one.

~~*~~

The air is so still here. The silence is almost unbearable. So many people, yet I've never been in a place so quiet. Despite the heat of the Indian summer, I shiver, and my husband pulls me closer to him with the arm that doesn't hold our son. Glancing up into his hazel eyes, I take a deep breath. Looking to my left, I see my mother, and reach for her hand. 

There are so many memories here. So many lives touched by one series of events. I feel the warm pressure as my mother grips my hand, and turning my face in her direction, I smile, hoping to catch her eyes. And I do. They don't contain their usual sparkle; the only reason they're unusually bright is because of the tears she's shedding. 

Listening more closely, I hear the faint sounds of sobbing. It takes me a moment to realize that I am crying myself, though silently. It's very surreal, being here, like an out-of-body experience. Somehow, we wound up front row center for this entire ceremony. Not that there was a real semblance of order to how we stood, but the fact that we'd been at the site since just before six in the morning had something to do with it. None of us could sleep. Not Fox, not my mother, nor Bill, nor Tara, certainly not Charlie's wife Ellen. Not even William, who had been sleeping better than his father and I had for quite some time. I've found that I don't really need as much sleep to function as I once did. That's why, when I found myself wide awake and battling morning sickness at three thirty a.m. this morning, I didn't even try to sleep again. 

Two years. It's hard to believe Charlie's been gone that long. My kid brother, the hero firefighter, was in the south tower when it collapsed. When everyone else was running down the steps, he was headed up, pulling hose, and telling everyone to remain calm, that they'd get out. He assured them that everything was being done to save them. He sent his fellow firefighters back when the smoke was too thick to see through, assuring them that he'd check to see if there was anyone up there. He assured them that he'd make it out on time, and told them to send Ellen all his love if he didn't. Always had to be a hero.

My mother squeezes my hand, and it is only then that I realize I'm sobbing. I turn to Fox, and he pulls me tightly to him. So tightly that I can feel his heart beating, hammering against my cheek through his black suit jacket. I'm only vaguely aware of the throbbing in my feet, and I'm regretting the decision to wear those four inch heeled black pumps. Damn it, Charlie, why did you always have to be the hero?

I stand at the foot of my brother's grave, clutching the bouquet of flowers in my hand. Why doesn't this ever get easier? I step forward slowly, and kneel down, before placing the flowers there and making the sign of the cross. I marvel for a moment, at the silence in the cemetery, and the sheer beauty of Charlie's headstone. It's a rather morbid thing to consider, the beauty of something found in a cemetery. But as Charlie once said to me as we knelt near Melissa's grave, just weeks after her burial, they aren't just markers of death. They symbolize the lives led by the people buried there. They represent a beginning and an ending of a life, and all that lies between. These are the things I remember, as I touch the cool, black marble of his headstone. The gold lettering has a brilliance to it that has yet to tarnish through two years of rain, snow and all other intermittent weather. I slowly read the words, as I have done countless times before. 'Charles William Scully. September 19, 1966- September 11, 2001. Son, Brother, Father, Hero.' Alone in the cemetery, where both my sister and brother were laid to rest, I sit back on my heels and listen to the wind. Missy once told me that if you listen closely, you can hear the spirits talking. I sit in silence and listen to the whispers of those whose bodies reside here, but whose souls reside elsewhere.

The air is so still here. The utter absence of sound is almost unbearable. The world around me is silent except for the souls who whisper on the wind. I hear my younger brother's unmistakable laugh, and I smile. 

There are so many memories here.

-le fin-

Thanks for reading, all comments and criticisms welcome. xxilovedavidduchovnyxx@yahoo.com 


End file.
